


The Danish Connection

by molybdomantic



Category: LEGO Detective's Office, Lego - All Media Types, Lego modular buildings
Genre: Baked Goods, Detective Noir, Gen, cheap plastic imitation Philip Marlowe, perfectly innocent cookie-smuggling operation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:24:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/molybdomantic/pseuds/molybdomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the mean streets of Lego City, Ace Brickman is on the trail of the shadowy Cinnamon Whirl Crook.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Danish Connection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innerbrat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerbrat/gifts).



> Set references for Lego set 10246 Detective's Office:  
> <http://www.thagomizer.net/2015/10/lego-detectives-office/>  
> <http://www.brickjournal.com/view/article/440/>  
> <https://modularsbykristel.com/review-10246-detectives-office/>
> 
> Ace Brickman narrates this story in the voice of Philip Marlowe as played by Ed Bishop in the BBC's 1977/78 _The BBC Presents: Philip Marlowe_ as heard here: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQvdOpVQ--I&list=PL1lWEfuIVzDfEw4hL9YOQrCto7jLyrpzM](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQvdOpVQ--I&list=PL1lWEfuIVzDfEw4hL9YOQrCto7jLyrpzM)

It was one hell of a Friday night when she walked through my door. Blouse so tight it coulda been printed on, and legs up to exactly the same height as everyone else in this goddamn town. I shoulda cleared off hours ago but the light from the pool hall sign was keeping me focused, and anyway I had no place to go but back to the 12-by-12 dive I call home. Barely room to walk past the bed, and as for fitting more than one suit in the cupboard, you can forget it.

"Can I help ya, lady?" I rasped in a voice like a box that had been dragged over one too many studs.

She looked at me like I was the last drop of coffee in the pot. She started to cry and I handed her the closest thing I had to a tissue - a copy of the commemorative Lego News issue which sang my praises back when I caught Separator McGee yellow-handed. Damn, but those papers get everywhere. For all the good **that** did my career, they might as well be tissues.

She pulled herself back together and began: "I've got a problem. I thought I had it under control, but"–she threatened to fall to pieces again–"I'm addicted to cinnamon whirls. Yesterday someone turned my place over and stole every last one. My supplier's dry and so's the rest of the city. Where can I get my fix?"

I sympathised. Cinnamon whirls may sound tame, but in this town you take your vices where you can. Let's just say, no-one ever made a lego cigarette.

As she spoke, her eyes gradually took in the room. Until they lit on the wanted poster I hung up to keep me humble. She gasped. "That's him! I'm sure of it."

"Is that so?" I asked, my curiosity piqued. "What can you tell me about him?"

She passed me a 2x2 tile with a photo on it. It showed the aftermath of the burglary, nothing left but an empty plate and a few crumbs. "I'd just come back from a night on the tiles. He broke my kitchen window, snatched the cinnamon whirls, and was gone in no time at all. I got a look at his face as he was climbing my fence." She gestured at my map as if to prove a point. "He was about average height, average build, and he had a red baseball cap and a black briefcase." 

I nodded knowingly. There was no doubt it was the same guy.

"Lady," I said, "I have to warn you that your miscreant is the only crook who's ever eluded me in the whole of my illustrious career."

Her face fell. "But please, Detective Brickman," she entreated me, "I have no-one else to turn to. Will you take my case?"

I can never resist a good entreaty. "I'd love to," I said, "but only if you can make it worth my while. A fig's gotta eat, and plastic croissants don't come cheap."

Truth be told I'd lost the combination to my safe. If I ever knew it. There could be anything in there. Doubloons, priceless gems, a 2x2 gold brick, a shower of purple studs... some days the thought was the only thing that kept me going.

"Oh, that's no problem," she purred. "I share a problem with the bank manager next door. I make ends meet by keeping him in cinnamon whirls, and he keeps me in non-folding money."

"Then you've got yourself a deal," I said.

And just like that she was gone, leaving the photo tile behind. I groaned. There's a limit to how many of those things fit in a filing cabinet, I tell ya. Sometimes I wonder why they don't make them thinner.

* * *

My own vice, if you're wondering, is cookies. I just can't get enough of those sweet, sweet chocolate chips. I always tell myself I'll just have one to help me sleep, and then before you know it, it's 3am and the whole place is a mess of chocolate and crumbs. I guess we all have our demons. At least mine taste nice.

As I lay awake that night, wired on sugar and regretting my life choices, I pulled out the photo tile again. Might as well make some use of the time, after all. An ordinary kitchen, an ordinary plate, ordinary crumbs.

And in the corner of the frame, a little out of focus, was a trophy. Things were starting to add up. All of a sudden I knew where to start my search.

* * *

It's a funny thing, but the same tiny block that contains the office of The Greatest Lego Hero Ever also contains a barber and a pool hall. It's almost as if heroism didn't pay the rent on an office you could swing a cat in. Not that Tiddles would stand for any swinging.

The pool hall holds an annual tournament, open to all comers. Players come from all over the City to take on the hall's finest. Last year a mysterious broad showed up and without saying a word wiped the table with them. Then she left, taking the trophy with her. I guess she'll bring it back next year, but the pool hall players are proud and seeing an empty trophy alcove every night put their metaphorical lego noses out of joint.

I was beginning to have my suspicions about Cinnamon Whirl Dame.

* * *

The next morning I put on my hat (it always helps me think), straightened my tie, checked my breath for any lingering smell of chocolate chips, and sauntered downstairs to check out the pool hall. On my way I dropped by Al's barbers to say hi.

Me and Al go way back, we've lived in this city ever since it was nothing but a café and a market. We bonded way back when over strong coffee and sharp suits. It's been a while since I could afford Al's services; these days I can barely scrape together the money for rent, let alone new hairstyles. But Al doesn't seem to mind. Leastways, he always makes out that he's pleased to see me.

Today he had a new customer, another cop. He's had a lot of cops in lately. I get the feeling they're scoping out the pool hall, trying to catch someone out. I could tell them we're both hoping for the same thing. She was polite enough, and chatty. Long brown hair in some kind of complicated arrangement, but I get the impression she'd been trying out several different looks over the past few days. It's easy enough to take one hairstyle off and put another on. Said she found it interesting to explore the viewpoint of a chef or a punk. "Mind-expanding", was the exact phrase she used. I guess that's the way I feel when I put on my thinking hat. I made my excuses and headed off to the pool hall.

* * *

Everything stopped when I walked through the pool hall door. You could have cut the atmosphere with a pair of scissors. No sound but the gentle swish of studs sliding to a halt on the table. All heads turned to face me; a room full of identical fixed smiles giving nothing away. The air smelled of sweat and chalk and, underneath it all, the telltale scent of baked goods. I knew I was onto something.

I tried to make small talk to relax the situation a little; I asked them if they'd seen _Mystery on the Monorail_ at the Palace, and if so what they thought of it. But nothing thawed them; they were certainly tough customers. Their expressions never flickered as they advanced on me, brandishing pool cues threateningly. I decided discretion was the better part of valour and ran for the alley door. But they had the measure of me, and the last thing I remembered was the ground rushing up to meet me.

* * *

I awoke to a pounding headache and the sound of voices. I felt like my head had been knocked clean off. Fortunately in Lego City that's easy enough to fix.

A couple of the pool hall regulars were standing nearby, looking as apologetic as you can with a fixed grin. One of them reached down to help me up. He had a look like he'd never been much of a fan of hair gel and wasn't about to start liking it now. The other had a grey hat and a check shirt and the air of someone who might at any moment decide to throw it all in and become a lumberjack.

"Thanks, buddy," I said. "Bit of a change of tune though, seeing as how I feel like I've been beaten up with a 2x4. Care to explain?"

If he'd looked any more sheepish, I swear I would have heard baaing. "Well, me and the guys, we've been, sorta, running a cookie racket."

Checked Shirt nodded in agreement. "We bake 'em, folks buy 'em. Only we've gotta keep it on the hush-hush, you know what the cops have been like."

I nodded ruefully. It's been getting harder and harder to come by a decent cookie. There are city-wide restrictions on baked goods--except for doughnuts, of course, they're deep fried. What a convenient loophole. Wouldn't want to stop the cops getting their sugar rush. "So with the cops next door at Al's, keeping an eye on the situation, you must've been getting pretty hot under the collar?"

"Yeah," confirmed Tousle Head. "With them sitting right on top of our tunnel exit it's been getting harder and harder to get the cookies through. And a minifig's gotta make a living, ya know? So when you turned up and started poking around in our business, you gotta understand we got a bit antsy. Sorry for the headache."

I winced. My head still felt like it had been pried loose one too many times. "Nah, I'd never go after guys like you. Salt of the earth, running a perfectly innocent cookie-smuggling operation? Where would I be without a good cookie now and then? No, gentlemen, I'm on the trail of a cinnamon whirl thief. If you have any leads I'd be most grateful."

They demurred. I was expecting as much; it wasn't really their area of expertise. Baked goods gangs are highly specialised these days. What works for a cookie would be murder on a shortbread finger, and with margins so tight they just can't risk the crumbs.

As they headed back into the pool hall, my eye fell on a trash can which must have been knocked over at the same time I was. In it was a strangely familiar red baseball cap. I thought back to the cop in Al's shop. I sure could use a change of perspective. I fished out the cap and put it on.

I trudged through the building back to my office. As I did, I caught sight of myself in Al's mirror. I looked just like the Cinnamon Whirl Crook from the wanted poster up in the office. It was as if a bolt of lightning had just struck me. Suddenly everything was clear, and smelt strongly of ozone. I ran up the stairs to my office two at a time and slammed the door behind me.

Numbers and facts were flooding back into my brain under the influence of the sinister red hat. I could remember a name, a cover identity, the code for the safe, the fact that there was a second safe behind the ship painting. I always wondered why I'd given that painting house room. Those damned serene sailors, hiding a secret all these years.

I opened the safe and some undeniably incriminating objects spilled out onto the floor. A rather large amount of money, and a black briefcase containing a hot cinnamon whirl. I could tell it was stolen, it had "property of Town Hall" iced on it in impressively neat letters. My suspicions growing, I pushed the painting aside to reveal a letter.

"Dear Me," it began. I stopped. I needed a stiff cookie and a seat. Having provided myself with both, I began.

* * *

> "Dear Me,
> 
> "I expect by now you're wondering what the hell is going on. You sitting down? (I know me, I'm sure you are and you have a cookie by your side for a little 'company'.)
> 
> "Truth is, you've been leading a double life. The Cinnamon Whirl Mastermind was you all along. You kept the knowledge locked away in your favourite baseball cap, but it was you all right. Goody two-shoes by day, criminal genius by night. Who do you think kept you in cookies, your cheapskate clients?
> 
> But it hasn't been an easy road, and last time things got too close for comfort I swore that was it. Wanted posters all over town and cops in every barber's shop left things too hot for my tastes. Enough was enough.
> 
> "Thing is, I knew I could never keep away. The lure of the money and the high life was always going to be too much. If the cap fits... and the cap's always gonna fit. So I left me a trap. I sent the cops a tip-off that will crack our case wide open. Anonymous, of course. They'll be watching that trash can 24/7. By the time you read this, the cop car will already be on its way."
> 
> "Best of luck, me, you're going to need it.
> 
> "Yours Truly,
> 
> _"Ace Brickman"_

I ripped off the fateful hat and threw it to the floor. But it was too late - the red glow of the pool hall sign had already turned to red and flashing blue.

Shrugging, I put the last bite of cookie into my mouth and turned to face the music...

**Author's Note:**

> Later I discovered <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UoQMpqjdPTQ> , which is the canon explanation for all of this nonsense (I like my version better!)
> 
> And also the delightful <http://imgur.com/gallery/w9eLm> which is a photographic take on the same theme.
> 
> With many thanks to my beta readers stephdairy, denisbloodnok, Ben, and Gareth.


End file.
